Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Ashton
Wind rustles the branches overhead, casting dancing shadows across the ground. Plump red cherries catch the sunlight, glistening with morning dew. As I walk the narrow path between the rows of trees, damp grass brushes my ankles, soaking through my jeans.
I can’t stop thinking about Troy. Just the thought of showing him around the orchard makes my stomach twist into knots. My brain goes fuzzy whenever he’s around. Something about his effortless charm and quiet confidence has this annoying habit of making me forget my own name.
Is going into business with him a bad idea? The thought flashes through my mind, but I already agreed. Backing out now would be rude, disrespectful even. And the last thing I want is to hurt Troy’s feelings—especially considering how kind he’s been to me.
My chest tightens at the sound of tires crunching over gravel.
I glance up to see Troy’s van rolling down the long, winding driveway that connects to the main road.
The engine rumbles through the quiet morning, breaking the orchard’s stillness.
His hand hangs out of the cracked window, a cigarette pinched between his fingers.
He parks near the barn and takes one last drag. I watch through the windshield as he smothers the cigarette in the van’s ashtray, then climbs out, black combat boots planting firmly on the dirt.
“Hey,” he calls, exhaling smoke with the word.
As always, he looks effortlessly attractive. A black T-shirt clings to his muscled arms and chest, highlighting his tan skin marked with faded ink. Light denim jeans swallow his thighs, a silver-studded belt strung between the loops.
“Hey,” I reply with an awkward wave, because apparently I don’t know what else to do with my hands.
“Jesus. How many acres is this place?” Troy asks, glancing around.
“A little over one fifty.”
“Holy shit. I mean, I thought it looked big from the road, but—wow.”
I let out a nervous laugh. “Yeah, it’s a lot of trees. Um, tart cherries are grown here on the east side of the farm, and the sweet varieties are over to the west.”
He nods. “Cool.”
Clearing my throat, I gesture toward the four-wheeler. “So, uh, if you want to hop on with me, I can show you around the orchard.”
His mouth twitches into a smile. “Promise to keep me safe on that thing?”
Heat spreads up my neck. “I—um, yeah. Of course.”
He huffs a quiet laugh before turning toward the four-wheeler. Growing up, we used them all the time to get around the farm quickly. I got this one for my seventeenth birthday—a blue ATV with a rack in the back for hauling tools.
I swing my leg over the leather seat and grip the handlebars.
Troy climbs on behind me, his thighs settling on either side of mine, fitting there like puzzle pieces.
His chest hovers close to my back, the warmth of his body seeping through the thin fabric of my shirt.
I’d expected him to leave a little space between us, but apparently personal boundaries aren’t really his thing.
“Alright. Hold on,” I mutter before turning the key.
The engine roars to life, the seat vibrating beneath us. The sharp scent of gasoline cuts through the air. I jolt when Troy’s arms slide around my waist, his grip firm, his body pressing fully against mine. Every muscle in me locks up.
“What?” Troy shouts over the engine. “You said to hold on.”
My jaw tightens. “You don’t have to—I mean, there are rear handgrips.”
He hums, chin settling on my shoulder. “Nah. I like this better.”
Well… alright, then.
I squeeze the clutch, and we lurch forward, speeding down the dirt path that cuts through the orchard. Wind rushes past us, tugging loose strands of my hair across my eyes. The trees close in on either side, their leaves whispering overhead, offering relief from the blistering sun.
Troy’s arms stay locked around my waist, solid and unyielding, his presence impossible to ignore. When I glance down, I catch sight of his forearm tattoos—roses tangled with skulls and thorny vines, the ink softened with age.
I veer off the main path, guiding the ATV deeper into the orchard. The rows grow tighter, the world narrowing until the sounds of the nearby road fade away completely. I slow as we reach a small enclave of trees tucked into the center of the property—a quiet pocket I’ve loved since I was a kid.
I cut the engine, and the sudden silence rings in my ears.
Out here, it’s peaceful. Just birdsong and the soft rustle of leaves, the air cooler beneath the canopy. I swing my legs off the seat stand, finally putting a little space between us.
“These are tart cherries,” I explain, waving a hand toward the trees. “Montmorency, mostly. They’re hardier than sweets and better for our soil.”
Troy hops off the ATV and wanders closer to the nearest tree, his attention immediately zeroing in on the branches heavy with fruit. He reaches out, thumb brushing a cluster of cherries.
“They look healthy,” he says, nodding with a soft, approving smile. “You really know your stuff, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess. This block usually does pretty well,” I say, suddenly very aware of how much I’m rambling.
“We use a machine that shakes the trees, catches the fruit on a big tarp, and funnels them into containers. Then they’re sorted, washed, pitted—well, depending on where they’re going.
Some go straight to cold storage. Others get processed same-day. ”
I realize I’m talking too fast, words tumbling over each other, and force myself to shut up. Troy just smiles, arms crossed, clearly enjoying watching me squirm.
“Sounds like you’ve got it down to a science,” he says, smug and amused.
Needing an excuse to look away, I reach up and pluck a cherry from a low-hanging branch, rolling it between my fingers. “You probably won’t like these,” I add, glancing at him. “Tart cherries aren’t really meant to be eaten plain. They’re more for baking. Or, you know. Brewing.”
A faint smile ghosts across his lips. “I don’t know. I like to sample the product—especially if I’m investing a lot of money in it.”
I hesitate. “I’m serious. They’re sour.”
He shrugs, stepping closer. “I like sour things.”
Before I can respond, he tilts his head and opens his mouth, waiting. He looks completely serious, gaze locked on mine, steady and confident. His brown eyes are as dark and woodsy as the trees around us.
My pulse kicks up hard as I stare at him, cherry pinched between my fingers, suddenly hyperaware of how quiet it is out here. Of how close he’s standing. Of the fact that I absolutely did not plan for this.
Pinching the stem, I dangle the cherry above Troy’s lips. His tongue flicks out, catching the silver ring in his bottom lip.
Slowly, I lower the fruit to his mouth. His lips part, closing around it, teeth snapping the stem clean. He draws it in with deliberate slowness, eyes never leaving mine, like he’s daring me to look away. Then he bites down, chews once, and tips the pit into his palm.
“Suck it clean,” he says, voice low.
My breath stutters. I almost laugh it off—but he doesn’t smile. He just waits, hand extended, expectant.
Something in me caves.
I lean in, heat rushing to my face as I obey.
When he presses the pit past my lips, two of his fingers follow.
I suck on them instinctively, a shiver racing through me as his skin drags against my tongue.
My stomach flutters, heat pooling low in my stomach when he pushes a little deeper, testing me.
What the hell is wrong with me?
My tongue circles the pit, the sharp tang of cherry juice lingering as his fingers brush my mouth. Troy’s stare is heavy, dark with desire. His lips part ever so slightly, a soft mixture of awe and surprise spread across his face.
He looks proud of me. It’s fucking weird.
When he removes his fingers from my mouth, a cough rattles up my throat. I spit the pit onto the dirt at our feet, the small, dark thing landing between us like evidence. I stare at it, chest rising and falling too fast, trying to steady my breathing.
Troy firmly grips my chin, his fingers slick with my own spit, and forces me to lift my head. I want to turn away and pretend this never happened, but he won’t let me. My throat works as I swallow, his eyes flicking between mine like he’s searching for an answer I don’t know how to give.
“Please…” I whisper.
I’m not even sure what I’m asking for—for him to let me go, or for him to pull me closer.
His thumb drags over my lower lip, tugging it down just slightly before his mouth captures mine.
The kiss is dizzying—hungry, desperate, consuming.
His lips are soft but unyielding, commanding mine into submission, and I give in without hesitation.
Every coherent thought dissolves the second he kisses me.
I let him take control, and the surrender is impossibly freeing.
“Fuck,” he groans against my lips. “You’re even sweeter than I expected.”
He cups my face with his warm, inked hands, then nudges me backward until my spine hits the rough bark of the nearest cherry tree.
The impact knocks a gasp from my chest—and he steals it, his tongue slipping into my mouth without hesitation.
His beard scrapes against my skin with a delicious burn, his metal lip ring catching my lower lip just enough to make me shiver.
He tastes like cherry juice and cigarette smoke, a strange, addictive combination that leaves me hungry for more.
His thigh presses between my legs, firm and deliberate, as his fingers grasp at my hair like he can’t get close enough.
The delicious, sharp tug on my scalp makes my knees wobble, a soft whine escaping my throat.
When his leg brushes my crotch, reality slams back into me—like breaking the surface after drowning, oxygen rushing painfully into my lungs.
Christ. What the hell am I doing?